


Silhouettes of Doom

by Ecthelion (Stoner)



Series: Silhouettes of Doom [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Drama, First Age, Gap Filler, Gen, POV Third Person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-26 01:26:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6218197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stoner/pseuds/Ecthelion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'At least we have learned that the Sons of Fëanor can die too.'</p><p>A story that tells (one version of) what happened before the kinslaying in Doriath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Curufin

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Silhouettes of Doom（中文版）](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11420679) by [Ecthelion (Stoner)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stoner/pseuds/Ecthelion). 



> Disclaimer: Arda and all that is in it belong to Professor Tolkien. I own only the mistakes.
> 
> The story and the characterization were not meant to fully comply with Sad But True. Subtle differences are expected.
> 
> Beta reading is most welcome!

Standing in front of the fireplace, Curufin pondered.

Embers still glowed in the hearth, giving off heat and a dim red light. He liked fire, especially the blazing fire in the forges: a symbol of creation, a source of inspiration, and the secret behind life and the world.

Some might argue that it was also the emissary of destruction, but he had no such concerns, for it would never bring harm to the sons of Fëanor. And there was another, not the evil fire of Morgoth but pure, bright fire born of light, how could it possibly hurt the descendants of its maker? Instead, it was clearly their emblem and weapon, and would hurt those who had betrayed or defied them, eliminating obstacles on the road of fulfilling their oath and vengeance.

So far it had done very well. A kingdom had fallen once, and soon would fall again.

He allowed a smile to flicker across his face. Naturally, he looked familiar to those who had once known his father, for among the seven brothers he resembled their father most, not only in appearance but also in the talents of making. If Curufinwë Fëanáro was a wildfire as fierce as devastating, Curufinwë Atarinkë would be a furnace fire, no less powerful, but always contained and refined. After all, he was called Curufin the crafty; and he knew very well that it was not merely due to his outstanding craftsmanship.

Fixing his eyes on the dancing flames in the fireplace, he reviewed the tidings he had gathered. All pointed to one answer; and this time he would not give anyone the opportunity to challenge it. But first, he needed to speak with his brother: Turkafinwë Tyelkormo, or Celegorm the fair.

When Curufin found his brother, Celegorm obviously had just returned from a hunt, with dust on his boots and horsehair on his breeches. Called 'the fair', Celegorm was truly fair of face, very impressive indeed; and equally impressive was his bearing, the definition of uncompromising and unconcealed pride. Seeing him enter, Celegorm did not even bother to greet him but simply pointed to a chair opposite him.

'How was your hunt?' he sat down and asked.

'A dozen Orcs; that is all.' Celegorm replied, fidgeting with a dagger, and the cold light of sharp metal reflected from his eyes. 'I have told Lachodir to burn them.'

Curufin knew this name. Lachodir was Celegorm's new herald; the young but capable Noldorin soldier, claiming he had been saved more than once by Celegorm in battle, offered his service to his brother when they were driven out of Nargothrond with no escort and had to go to Himring empty-handed. As the most loyal servant of his brother, Lachodir had shown unsurpassed devotion that even could be called blind - or it might not be blind at all, for Celegorm could be a powerful and charismatic leader if he had a mind to be one. The truth was that the sons of Fëanor were all too distinct to be neglected.

'I have news, Turko.' he came at once to the point, which had been proven to be the most effective way to deal with his brother. 'Thingol's daughter is dead.'

If Celegorm was surprised, he did not show it. Still playing with the dagger, he let the sharp edge dance between his deft, steady fingers, without the slightest sign of accidentally cutting himself. 'That is not news.'

'Her son Dior the Half-elven has returned to Doriath and intended to restore its glory.'

'That is certainly not news.' Celegorm set down the dagger and looked up. 'You came to me just to go through these trifles?'

'She did not take the Silmaril to her grave. It is now worn on Dior's chest.'

A silence fell. He watched his brother closely, not missing the least of change in his brother's mood. Celegorm was usually not elusive, but as small as the discrepancy seemed to be, there was a fatal difference between 'usually' and 'always'. If he took a wrong approach, his brother could become completely impossible to reason with. He would not allow yet another opportunity to be missed.

'Then our Silmaril is back in Doriath,' after a while, Celegorm gave a laugh, but there was no joy in it. 'Should we call that a coincidence, or fate?'

'Both.' Curufin met his brother's gaze, voice smooth. 'The time has come for us to fulfill our Oath.'

Celegorm nodded, lips curling. 'Doriath is destined to be our target.'

'If we _convince_ our eldest brother,' Curufin said.

'If we convince him, of course.' Celegorm laughed. 'But it will not be difficult to convince him. He takes the Oath more seriously than any of us.'

As he had expected, Celegorm was insightful if he wished to be. A hasty-riser his brother might be, but it would be utterly wrong to think that Celegorm lacked sound judgment. He would never forget that Celegorm was first and foremost a great hunter, the most renowned among the Noldor.

'We should go to Amon Ereb as soon as possible; and we must notify Moryo and the twins as well.' he said.

Celegorm nodded again absently, and looked at the dancing flames in the fireplace. For a moment, the defined lines on his brother's handsome face seemed to be softened.

'So, we will attack Doriath.' Words came, almost imperceptible, addressed to no one. But Curufin was instantly alerted by them, because last time he saw Celegorm like this was when he told his brother to prepare an assault on Tol Galen and recover the Silmaril that had been set into a Dwarven necklace. That time, Celegorm rebuffed his plan and refused to listen to any of his reasons.

'I know she has it.' his brother said then. 'But I will not attack her, nor will you.'

'I do not understand, Turko,' he tried to insist. 'Are you telling me you are actually fond of h—'

'I will not do it.' Celegorm interrupted him and would allow no further explanation.

He had to give up in the end, though unreconciled. He never believed that Celegorm was moved by the unparalleled beauty of Lúthien, for he knew his brother had loved another, though Celegorm would never admit it and would rather leave all to believe that he was enamored of Thingol's daughter. But would that mean Celegorm had also refused to attack her simply for the sake of misleading others?

It remained inconclusive, and since then he had been on guard. It was always fascinating to try to understand other minds, but frustrating to attempt to master them, for they were the most delicate things in the world.

Knowing it would be a risk to bring up the past at this moment, he weighed his options and decided to take the risk earlier than later. 'Keep it in mind, Turko,' he said, 'That we cannot afford to be generous with those we have to destroy.'

'Of course,' as if just woken from a dream, Celegorm straightened himself and gave him an easy smile, although his eyes were suddenly lit with a chilling light. 'Do not worry, Kurvo. I am not so generous as to indulge my feelings to that extent.'


	2. Maedhros

Celegorm and Curufin were here, Amrod and Amras were on their way, and Caranthir would arrive tomorrow.

'They are unchanged.' Maglor commented after taking a good look at the two brothers from a distance.

 _Which means they are as troublesome as before,_ Maedhros thought. In the blazing sunlight of late summer, the host brought by Celegorm and Curufin stood in neat formation, silent and still. Consisted of carefully configured archers and riders, greater in number than ordinary need, with the Star of Fëanor engraved in armor, embedded on shields, and embroidered on surcoats, it was not a rigorously trained escort but an army ready to march. Maedhros knew Celegorm was an excellent commander, by whose hand the troops of Morgoth had suffered a greal deal in Dagor-nuin-Giliath, but he doubted Celegorm would take the trouble to make such a display of power merely to show he could.

'Maitimo,' Seeing him frown, Celegorm dismounted from his white stallion and threw the reins to an attendant. 'Is it so painful to see us?'

'Do you have no confidence of pleasing your elder brothers at all?' Maedhros retorted, lips forming a wry smile. 'Or we both have failed to find a joke that is not so bad, Turko.'

He thought his brother would be irritated, but to his surprise Celegorm simply laughed it off. _Maybe even a hasty-riser can learn patience and wisdom in the end,_ he thought. _For we all do._

After Celegorm, Curufin walked up. 'I hope our visit does not bother you too much, my brother.'

 _In fact, you cannot bother me more,_ Maedhros thought. However, he simply nodded to Curufin and made a gesture of welcome. 'Of course not. As brothers, we have been apart for too long. It is time for a family reunion.'

At that, Curufin raised a brow and then gave him a knowing yet supportive smile.

Maedhros left it to Maglor to make necessary arrangements for Celegorm and Curufin's people. He needed to clear his mind and be prepared, for despite what was said, he was certain that Celegorm and Curufin did not come for a family reunion. It was not as simple and straightforward as some might think to be the leader of the House of Fëanor; surely a heroic reputation helped, but it was far from enough.

_Your father had known it all along, Findekáno, although he finally snapped._

He caught himself thinking again as in the old days and could not but let out a sigh. Old habits must truly die hard, for after such a long time he still could not help conversing in mind with that old name, even though the one with the name had already departed with no grave to be found behind. The familiar sound of it stung his heart - _if I have a heart,_ he corrected himself, lips pursed into a downward arc. _How can one still have a heart if he has died, not once but twice? The one who would disobey his father to defend a friend passed away long ago on the accursed rock of Thangorodrim, and what you had put your life on stake to bring back, Findekáno, is only a lingering glimmer of fire, who has witnessed and tasted darkness, and thus could no longer bear it._

He stopped his wandering thoughts. After all, he had changed. He could be a ruthless and invincible warrior if necessary, but he was also a leader capable of evaluation and calculation, preserving their own strength and avoiding unnecessary casualties. And that was why his brothers gathered around him at the news of Lúthien's death and Dior's return to Doriath.

It seemed to be time to remind others of their rights over the Great Jewel again.

_But is it fair to ask for something we have not won but inherited, while others have bled and died for it?_

Sitting behind his desk, Maedhros pondered.

...'Again, Maitimo.' came Fingon's voice.

He had lost count of how many times his sword flew out of his grasp. With a clang the blade hit the ground not far away, while Fingon withdrew his sword and retreated for another round of practice.

 _Now you can easily beat me, Findekáno, but you never had such a big advantage in the past._ He thought. _In the past, I was your teacher and trainer._

But he did not say it. If he had learned anything on the rockface of Thangorodrim, it was doubtlessly silence. Walking to the place where his sword landed, he bent down and reached out his hand - his left hand, of course. When he slowly closed his fingers around the clammy hilt, he could feel Fingon's gaze on him, full of concern and conflict.

Fortunately, no pity.

Suddenly a rage took him. Looking up, he met Fingon's eyes. 'This is unfair.'

'I know.' Fingon replied, keeping his voice steady. 'And you know it from the beginning, Maitimo. It was you who said the Enemy would not be fair with us.'

'Are you the Enemy then?' he pointed his sword to the direction of his cousin, eyes sparkling. 'The Enemy will not be fair with us, but you will be fair with me. Now fight me again,' a smile crept onto his face. 'With your left hand.' ...

_The Enemy will not be fair with us, of course. Wielding a weapon of betrayal, Morgoth has crushed your life and my hope, but you and I are still different: you have fallen as a king with your ending met, while I have to live on with a shattered yet lingering hope._

_Dior Eluchíl and the Silmaril._ Maedhros touched what was left of his sword-hand in spite of himself. _It is unfair, and I know it. But what would you do if you were me, Findekáno? Would you choose to take back the other two Jewels first, to attack Morgoth once again and challenge the power of Angband like your father did, even though you knew it would be a desperate attempt doomed to fail?_

_I know you would, because you had never sworn an oath in the name of Ilúvatar, and because you had never had a glimpse of the Everlasting Dark beyond redemption. That is why you could still live up to your valiant reputation and choose to sacrifice while I cannot, even though I have no attachment to this broken life. Before the Oath is fulfilled, my own fate is only one weight on the scales, for I have six brothers to consider._

_Do you see it now, Findekáno? I have but one choice._

_...Stop, Maitimo._

A different voice intruded then and instantly put him on alert. _Is that truly you, Findekáno?_

_...You are standing on the edge of the abyss. Do not test the depth of it._

_Or, is it again simply a phantom conjured up by my mind, haunting, tricking and threatening me like the terrors of Thangorodrim?_

The sun slowly moved past the zenith. Bright sunlight shone through the window and then on the floor, drawing a clear boundary between light and shadow.

'I will first send him a request,' Maedhros announced in a voice of finality, to an empty room.


	3. Dior

It was a piece of parchment, a little discoloured, with neat writings on it: black against yellow, in both Runes and Tengwar.

Again, he read it silently.

'To Dior Eluchíl, son of Lúthien and Beren, Heir of Elu Thingol.'

The young ruler of Doriath rose from his seat. Neither an Elf nor a Man, Dior Aranel Eluchíl inherited his mother's unparalleled beauty and his father's weathered eyes, and the fates of the Firstborn and the Followers were woven seamlessly in him, forming a peculiar yet unique charm.

In the great hall, below the dais, his people were waiting nervously, so he gave them a comforting smile. 'It is what we have long expected, nothing more.'

Yes, they had expected it ever since he returned to Menegroth: a 'request' the initiator thought the recipient had no right to refuse.

A murmur broke from the crowd. However prepared they were for this day, no one could stay indifferent when it actually came. Standing in front of the High Seat, Dior surveyed their faces: some looked angry, some anxious, some resigned, while most seemed afraid.

 _Maybe we do have a reason to be afraid,_ he sighed in his mind. As of now, the reputation of the Sons of Fëanor had become far from decent among the Grey Elves: they were formidable warriors capable of murder and treason, and two of them even openly threatened to destroy Doriath last time their demand of the Great Jewel was rejected.

But there was more to consider. In these dark days, one could not simply hope to stay safe by avoiding immediate danger.

'I will not assent to their _request_.' After the murmurs died away, Dior announced. 'I will not surrender the Jewel to them.'

A silence fell, and everyone looked up at him regardless of the formality.

'I am called Eluchíl,' he continued, voice calm yet firm. 'I will live up to my grandfather's name.'

The mentioning of his grandfather, the late King of Doriath, transformed them. One by one, they bowed to him, as if before them were not a Half-elven who had seen less than fifty season changes. And when they straightened again, there was no more fear on their faces. They were truly prepared.

_That is what we are. Once we choose a path, we will commit to it with all we have. My father, my mother, my grandfather, my grandmother, my people: that is what we are. The Noldor are not the only people who know pride and dignity, nor is an exile the only way to demonstrate courage and determination._

Afterwards, he walked through a corridor that led away from the center, listening to his own footsteps echoing between the glimmering walls. Those who designed and built the splendid city had departed, and the walls had been once stained by blood and steel, but Menegroth stood, with its mystery, grandeur and pride undiminished. In the silence of the night, the history of a kingdom accumulated over thousands of years surrounded him, embracing and comforting him, until he was nearly overwhelmed by a tide of emotions, lost in the ensuing thoughts.

Strolling in the passages of Thousand Caves, Dior pondered.

He touched the Nauglamír again where the Silmaril was set. The Silmarils: the only surviving seeds of the purest Light born before the Sun and the Moon, a token of the highest beauty in Arda Marred. In its radiance, he saw his mother again: Lúthien Tinúviel, daughter of Melian and Thingol, the fairest of the Children of Ilúvatar. So many times she sang under the starlit sky on Tol Galen, her voice soft and fair, her smile sad but content, while the Silmaril rested on her chest like the brightest star. At her side sat Beren Erchamion, always listening to her attentively, hand gently holding her hand, the once dark hair touched with winter's grey, and the mortal face marked by the relentless years. After going through numerous perils and griefs they were rewarded with a brief time of peace, after which they took an unknown road together that led them beyond the Circles of the World.

He remembered those nights and the sound of water from afar, so vividly that he could not but feel an ache deep in his heart.

_How can I surrender the Jewel that carries such precious memories to the hands of those who have never bled to win it? How can I allow my grandfather's kingdom to succumb to the threats of the ruthless, unrepentant murderers?_

_It is true that the Sons of Fëanor have sworn to take the Silmarils back; but they are not even the maker of what they claim to be theirs and theirs only. And what have they done to fulfill their oath? Have they aided King Felagund and my father in the Quest? Have they gone through dangers beyond imagination and faced the terrors of Angband? Have they managed to access the Iron Crown of the Enemy? And have they died for the Jewel, relinquished their fates as the Firstborn, returned from the dead, and doomed to taste mortality in the end?_

_They have no true claim on it._

'My lord.' A voice came from behind.

He stopped. Turning back, he saw his wife. Silvery hair glimmering in the golden candle light, she looked young and fair, although she had seen many more springs and winters than he. Their twin sons, Eluréd and Elurín, were with her, little hands tugging at her long, white skirt.

'Nimloth.' He called her and held out his hand to her. When she put her hand into his, he was surprised. 'Your hand is cold.'

She said no words, but he saw conflict and reluctance in her eyes. Intertwining his fingers gently with hers, he pulled her closer. 'What is it?'

Looking into his eyes, she leaned on him and sighed before speaking. 'I know they are also Elves, and they are not as powerful as they appear. But,' she hesitated a little. 'Is that the only way? Do we have other choices?'

To that, he simply smiled. 'Trust me, my love.'

Just then a vision emerged from his mind, completely uninvited: the blood-stained Silmaril, set on the Dwarven necklace of Nauglamír, in the left hand of his father. Against the thick, cruel crimson, its radiance and beauty seemed to be even more striking. As the hand dipped it into running water, the color of blood was diluted, and the vision faded away.

He was confused for a moment, and it was again her voice that called him back to reality. For the first time since he came to Menegroth, he found the night here dark and cold.

Fortunately, the confusion was only temporary. Shaking his head slightly, he readied himself.

_It is decided._

_They want an answer, but I will not give it to them, for I will not give them anything they demand of me._

_Except for war._


End file.
